Are you Afraid of the Dark?
by The Visionary
Summary: The Reavers have struck at another ship and the crew must fight to survive, but against such a power, the battle is already lost. A piece inspired by "Bushwacked". RR


A.N. Just a scene that I had in my mind after "Bushwacked", something I felt I had to get out of my head. Tell me what you think of it and whether or not you think I need psychotherapy.

Are you Afraid of the Dark

Dei 's own breath was heavy in his ears, the sensations of his body a dull, muted background to the roaring input of his senses, the smell of fresh blood, the scarlet splashes across the walls, the familiar faces now pale with death. His vision was blurred by a mixture of sweat and tears, his shoulder-length black hair stuck to his face by the salty combination that stung his eyes, the spectral, flickering glow of emergency lighting making it even more difficult to see. He was glad for that in a small way. It meant he missed most of the detail, most of the horror of what had been done to the rest of the crew.

It was eerily silent as he edged his way through the corridors, the heavy, familiar weight of his twin pistols a reassuring presence in his hands as he tried to watch everywhere at once. They could come at him from anywhere, everywhere, fast as lightning, refusing to die even with a dozen holes in all the right places, blood dripping from them, congealing on their armour even before he shot them. They didn't feel pain, didn't die, they weren't human.

He wondered if he was more frightened now that the screaming had stopped, it had drilled through his skull since moments after the alarm had been raised, then it had been giving a staccato back-beat of shots and bullets, screeches, alien and terrible joining the cries of his crew-members. The shots had stopped a long time before the screaming had. He wondered how many had been killed, how many his fellow crew-members had killed before the things got to them. He'd killed one himself, he was glad of that. At least they could die, at least he'd not been as impotent as he'd feared he'd be against these monsters.

His thoughts dissolved into the white-hot buzz of terror as the sudden crashing of inhumanely swift footsteps shattered the endless peace of a dead ship. His body pivoted, his pistols snapping up as he lined up the barrels, eyes wide and frightened but hands swift and sure, guided by instinct honed from experience. He blocked out the horror of the visage that greeted him, blocked out the sounds it made, blocked out the terror that clutched at him at the name of what he faced, and began shooting.

The halls of Persepheny were narrow, smooth, no convenient niches for it to duck into, no chance for it to avoid his shots. It was still twenty metres away when the first round took it in the head, its skull snapping back as a jet of sickly, blackened blood sprang from its forehead, spattering across the emergency lighting. But it kept coming, something in its body driving it onward, toward him, its arms swinging wildly, brutal yet graceful metal in its hands, blades and points glinting in a complicated machination. The second shot had been fired almost in the same instant as the first but it had still covered almost five metres by the time the bullet struck, punching a hole through its shoulder, armour and hide buckling as the shot hit its chest. But it kept coming.

The mad minute, that last minute of a fire-fight when you knew you were going to die and you just hoped that if you somehow kept on shooting, kept on breathing and shooting and moving that somehow you would live. Dei heard a roar in his ears and realised it was his own as his guns flared again and again, his mind somewhere recognising the symptoms of the mad minute in his actions. Most of him ignored the acknowledgement, simply concentrating on keeping on firing, on frantically squeezing the triggers under his fingers, on stopping the evil that bore down on him.

The creature gyrated like some kind of insane string-puppet as his bullets tore at its flesh, its muscles and nerves jerking and twitching as his shots drilled holes straight through it. But it still kept coming. One of the arms came up and it was on him, it had made the twenty metres in under two seconds, he was one of the best gun-fighters on the ship, he'd put six holes in it. The fascinatingly deadly weapon in its hand drove into his shoulder, his roar turning to a scream even as he squeezed the triggers twice more, another two holes puncturing its chest as he went down under its momentum and writhing weight.

He lay there, the creature lying dead across him as he felt warmth seep across his shoulder, the sensation welcome as it drove the sudden chill in his body away from his skin. He stared up at the blinking emergency lights, they made such pretty colours… pretty patterns. He wondered how many holes there were in the grille between the two lights, how many shadows cast by the pretty patterns. He didn't know, he'd lived on the ship for seven years and he'd never taken the time to count them. He'd just have to do it now. One, two, three, four… 

A.N. There you go, hope it wasn't too disturbing. Tell me what you think of it and in case your interested I'll soon be posting a one shot Simon/Kaylee fic as soon as I finish refining it.

Go With God

The Visonary


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